There are just so many things I need to pull together now. Legal crap and stuff. And it’s not that I’ve lost hope. It’s not. But he’s going to snake a tube inside my body and fuck inside my heart and I just think it’s a good idea to have all the legal crap done. Health directives and Last Wills and Testaments and all the things that should be tidied up. And I’m 54. It’s not like it’s premature to have all that finished. I don’t have any assets to speak of. Not really. Anyone with a head can see my career isn’t what it should be. I’ve accomplished so little in my life and I’ve wasted so much of it. But I do need things prepared. It made sense to ask her. I wrote a novel about us. I wrote a play about us. It makes sense she should write my wishes for me. Legally bound. Lawyer. Attorney.
So I sat at the bar and watched her walk in front of the Christmas tree towards me and the lights outlined her like a halo and I don’t think I should be embarrassed that a tear or two skied down my cheek. My cardiologist said my emotions are normal. “You’ve had a big month. Patients often experience emotions similar to PTSD.” And I said, “No. No. I’m fine. I’m very emotionally solid. You’re seeing me in a social situation. I have to be this verbal.” But she approached me and it was all these emotions coming toward me. And the loss. All the losing. All the goddamned gone and I couldn’t help myself. It flooded me and I felt like a fool but she’s the one person I can be a fool alongside who doesn’t think I’m foolish. I didn’t create a scene. I willed myself to remain a man. I straightened my face and stood up and she kissed me on my right cheek or maybe it was left. My hand was around her back and I didn’t even consider the “I pledge allegiance” thing to remember my right from my left. And I can’t remember now because she put her palm on the other side and her touch made me tremble and it took all my concentration not to cry. “No you can’t be there.” She can’t. She knows that. She knows why. I broke the rules just asking for the paperwork. But I wanted to see her. He gets to see her every day. She showed me children’s pictures on her phone. More isn’ts. Wasn’ts. Aren’ts. We didn’t hug goodbye. I keep the rules; she keeps the rules; we’ve always kept the rules.
Heartbroken. I’m not stupid. I get all this. I don’t give a fuck about writing anymore. I don’t even edit my words. It’s like rushing to a urinal and barely having the time to unzip. Expulsion. I started to tell the electrophysiologist how ironic it was that the rhythm of my heart is bad. Rhythm was a hallmark of my talent. Read anything I’ve written and see the majestic way I used rhythm. But I didn’t. I said nothing. He had 20 minutes to explain the necessity of a 3-6 hour procedure. Amend. A mend. Mend a brokenheart. I get it all. I’m not stupid. I’m heartbroken. My heart beats too fast. My heart is literally beating me to death.